


A Guardian Angel

by KimieVII



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Demons, Discorporated Aziraphale (Good Omens), Discorporation (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), References to Depression, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimieVII/pseuds/KimieVII
Summary: Calling Aziraphale again did not help in any way. It was the same voice, telling Crowley the same message, over and over. He looked at the door of the store, and wanted nothing more, right now, than for Aziraphale to prove him wrong by stepping inside, assuring him this was a joke, or a bad dream, and that he would wake up soon. He wanted that breath of relief. He was hanging onto it like a mortal hangs on for dear life. He was ready for some unspeakable things if it meant he could get it now.If it was a joke, it was of bad taste and if it was a dream... he wasn't waking up. He waited a long time, but Aziraphale never passed the door.————————————Aziraphale vanishes into thin air one morning, leaving Crowley on his own. As the demon looks for his missing friend and evidences pile in front him, he starts believing the worst happened. It's like falling a second time, but it's a lot more painful this time. Ubenknownst to him, he's got a Guardian Angel looking after him, though.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	A Guardian Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to get back into writing regularly. It's hard, but I have tons of ideas and wips for this fandom, so I am hoping I can slowly start publishing more again.  
> So this is just an excuse to torture Crowley a little, confront him to the fear of actual loneliness on Earth, and explore his psyche as he goes through all the stages of grieving. _But_ as the tags say, this will get a Happy Ending.  
> There are so many fanfics for this fandom, I am certain there have been similar ones written but I didn't exactly look for one myself, and I badly wanted to write some "angst with a happy ending". I've had this idea for a while, so there goes nothing~ 
> 
> A THOUSAND of thanks to [jaguarspot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaguarspot) for beta-reading this fic! Seriously, I can't thank her enough, she deserves all the love ♥

Crowley woke with a start, a fierce sense of dread constricting his throat. He brought a trembling hand to his forehead and felt fat beads of sweat rolling down there. His chest apparently was in no better conditions, if the soaked silk sticking to his skin was any indication.

That was new, he thought. It had certainly never happened before. Neither the waking up in a panic, nor the... sweating part. Any other time, Crowley would have recoiled at the human body-like reaction that was perspiration, and would probably have mumbled to himself " _Gross_ " ―Most demons loved what could be described as “gross”, but Crowley most definitely wasn't one of them― or something along that line. But not this time.

This time his mind was too busy twirling around a single thought: something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

He couldn't exactly explain why nor think of what could possibly be wrong, but something was, of that much he was absolutely certain.

He quickly realized that he was unable to slow down the drumming heart in his ribcage or the gasps that came faster than they should, somehow ―which was ridiculous, he was a demon, he didn't even need to breathe for Earth's sake― so he just sat on his bed, his chest heaving painfully, his heart racing and his breathing laboured, with the irrefutable knowledge that a gear in his little world had fallen out of place. He knew it with the same certainty he would know if he stepped in the hallway and one of his plants had started developing a sickness in its roots. Or if he had climbed in the Bentley and the tiniest stain had been left on the upholstery. Or again, if he entered Aziraphale's bookshop and one of the angel's books was missing. If Aziraphale was missing one thread of cotton on the fabric of his waistcoat-....

Aziraphale.

Crowley suddenly sat straighter at the thought of his old friend. That was it, what all this apprehension was about. Something was wrong and it was linked, somehow, to Aziraphale. Crowley didn't even know how that made so much sense in his mind, or how the angel could possibly be the reason he was feeling so distressed, but somehow, he just _knew_.

Faster than a minnow can swim a dipper, Crowley was out of bed. He stumbled to the floor when his feet tangled in the dark sheets but a hurried snap of fingers freed him in an instant. With another one, he was fully dressed, and all traces of sweating vanished. He grabbed his glasses and exited his apartment.

*****

This was ridiculous, he thought to himself. Nothing had happened, what could possibly have happened? It was just a bad feeling, that was all. Nothing more to it. Aziraphale was fine. At least that was what he kept repeating to himself.

And why wouldn't Aziraphale be fine, after all?

As the demon drove towards the bookshop, he tried calling his long time friend. Too busy telling himself everything was perfectly well, he didn’t even notice the picture, usually showing the angel and his location whenever he called, showing now nothing more but plain white on the small phone's screen. A feminine, robotized voice told him that she was sorry and that the phone number he was trying to call wasn't available, and Crowley felt his heart sinking for this was all too familiar, and reminding him of the last time he had been told the exact same thing.

No ominous, black cloud of smoke could be seen as he got closer to the familiar district, and as he rounded a corner and parked the car on the sidewalk across the bookshop, there were no flames licking and devouring the ancient structure. It did very little to ease the demon's worry, though, for the nagging feeling that something was _still_ wrong wouldn't leave him, and he would only allow himself a breath of relief when he saw the angel, safe and sound, with his own two eyes.

Aziraphale was a “Creature of the Lord”. A Principality. He wasn't so easily discorportated _and_ discorporation never once happened to him in _six thousand_ years of existence ―if he didn't count that mishap three years earlier, when they were trying to prevent Armageddon. But the angel always took great care of the earthly body he was given. He liked it quite a lot, and always was immensely careful with it. There was absolutely no way he was in trouble, and yet, Crowley's mind was ill at ease.

He's just sipping cocoa with a book, he told himself as he crossed the store's threshold. The front door wasn't even closed... it was a good sign, right?

He would greet him with a smile and offer him a cup of tea, it didn't matter that he hadn't heard of him for the last few weeks, he was fine

Crowley approached the backroom and called Aziraphale's name.

No answer.

At this point, his hunch heightened. The bookshop was too quiet, there was something off with it. He called again, and as the silence answered him once more, he immediately recognized what felt so off with the place. It wasn't the quietness. It was the bleak, madly foreign absence of scent.

Crowley, much like angels, was able to sense other occult or... “ethereal” beings' presence. For miles. And Aziraphale had a distinctive smell that the demon was all too familiar with. But the only smell filling his nose and palate right now was one of mouldy paper, and dust.

Once more, he was reminded of the last time such a thing had happened, and the sinking feeling that followed. But now the bookshop wasn't crumbling around him, the heat of blaze wasn't closing in on him. And yet it was all the same. Excepted this time he felt... cold, instead.

Entering the backroom only contributed to add more weight to his already caving heart. There was no angel there to greet him warmly.

He fell to his knees, desperation trapping him in its clutch. Whatever had happened, Aziraphale couldn't be... gone. And by gone, he thought... _gone_. He must was somewhere, some place, he just didn't know where, but he would come back... right?

Crowley's gut feelings never lied to him before, and even as he drove to the bookshop insistent on telling himself that Aziraphale was fine, he had been warned. His only deceiver there and now was his own mind, but even with all of his determination, there were still thoughts he couldn’t will into reality. Wishing the angel was safe wouldn’t magically make it happen. Even he had limits. Instead he had to face the fact that something _had_ happened and that it was something grim. As if Earth had started turning in reverse. 

He felt dizzy, and sick.

Mostly he felt helpless. He had no idea, not even remotely, of what could be happening, of what those sinister clouds hanging over his mind meant. Nor could he think of a way to find Aziraphale. The only thing he had with him was this vague, abstract idea that something was amiss, and that he was left alone to figure it out.

Calling Aziraphale again did not help in any way. It was the same voice, telling Crowley the same message, over and over. He looked at the door of the store, and wanted nothing more, right now, than for Aziraphale to prove him wrong by stepping inside, assuring him this was a joke, or a bad dream, and that he would wake up soon. He wanted that breath of relief. He was hanging onto it like a mortal hangs on for dear life. He was ready for some unspeakable things if it meant he could get it now.

If it was a joke, it was of bad taste and if it was a dream... he wasn't waking up. He waited a long time, but Aziraphale never passed the door.

To pass the time and calm his nerves, Crowley thought of the last time he had seen Aziraphale, three weeks earlier. They had had a lovely time at one of their favorite cafés, followed by a walk in Regent's Park where they had stayed long after the sun had set.

While they watched the stars together, Aziraphale had brushed his pinky finger against his. At first, Crowley had thought it had been unintentional, and that Aziraphale would remove his hand the moment he felt his skin had touched Crowley's. But he didn't.

The finger remained there for a moment, before gently leaving. All the while, Crowley had stayed frozen in his seat. But then he had looked up at Aziraphale, and found something in the way the angel was looking at him that had made him swallow with difficulty. And maybe also ―and he wasn't proud of this― something that had reddened the tip of his ears.

Crowley had wanted to kiss Aziraphale so badly, that night.

Thinking back, he could have just... leant down and kiss him, but thousands of years spent forcing himself to keep his feelings and urges below the surface whenever he felt them rising would forge strong habits of steel. And those weren't so easy to break or throw out when they made a home out of one demon's soul.

And so he hadn't kissed Aziraphale. Nothing had happened that night. Just like every other night of Crowley's everlasting life.

Crowley almost wanted to be angry with Aziraphale sometimes. Because if those looks Aziraphale would cast at him, and that seemed so demanding, meant what Crowley thought they meant, then, why wouldn't the angel just... say something? Spill it out, in the open, just _say_ what he wanted out of their relationship.

Was it companionship? Something like carrying on with the way they had always been before? Or was it something more akin to human relationships, with the touches and displaying affection through meaningful words that were supposed to link two beings together somehow?

Did Aziraphale want the affection demonstrated through gentle physical contact as well? Crowley knew most humans often felt that need. The ones who seemed to share strong feelings of devotion and love for one another usually looked like they couldn't possibly get close enough. Like even skin was a hindrance, and if they could dive past it, they would do just so in order to merge their very souls

Pitiful creatures, the humans. Crowley couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. Angels, he knew, and by extension demons as well, could _actually_ merge souls. He had never done it before, nor did he know if any of his kind, or of Aziraphale's kind, had ever done it, but he knew, for a fact, that he could, if he wanted to. And maybe he wanted to. With Aziraphale, that is. If only the angel wanted the same thing. But Crowley never knew if he did, because the blessed angel never said anything, and now he was gone and thinking of the last time they saw each other only led the demon to feel even more bitter, and cold, and lonely than he already felt.

The thought that now he might actually never know, that everything he wanted to say and do with the angel ―more than he already did over the centuries― might never be, that they had all the time in the world but all the time in the world was never enough and he lost all his chances, was so unbearable he had to shut his brain up. He opened a door up there, in his mind, found a place to hide the nasty thing and locked it down before burying it in a dusty, deserted hole, so that he would never be tempted to think those hideous thoughts again. He was a coward and he knew it, but he was in too much distress to address that matter now. He only allowed a more gentle thought as he mumbled to himself that it was too early to jump to conclusions.

Trying to pull himself together, Crowley dragged his body back to his feet. As far as he knew, Aziraphale may be in danger, he needed to find him and to find him quickly. He had wasted enough time waiting, trying to convince himself he was only overreacting.

He just... didn't have a clue where to start. He started searching the bookshop, in hope he would find something, _anything_ that could help or give him a lead. Alas, the bookshop was the same as always. The same in appearance only, however. Without its owner, it felt like nothing more but an empty shell.

Crowley even scanned the place for the leather-bound hardcovers that were last consulted by the angel. The ones where Aziraphale's corporeal form left an exothermic imprint that Crowley could still feel lingering on the antique books' delicate covers. Opening one of them, he thought, would maybe lead him to find something he missed. Something the angel might not have told him about. Unfortunately, he found nothing helpful there either.

He tried to remember their last conversations. The angel had seemed a bit secretive and jittery as of late, now that he thought of it. Even so, he couldn't think of something Aziraphale could have said that sounded out of the ordinary. As he reviewed each of the words Aziraphale had last spoken, he even tried to see if some of them could possibly hold some hidden meanings, some hints, but couldn't think of anything standing out. He was good at solving riddles, but this was ridiculous.

No, the only thing that had seemed... truly _off_ the last few weeks ―and it _had_ struck him as odd, even then― was that Aziraphale hadn't made any attempts to contact him, at all.  
It didn't really feel like a worrying detail, at first. After all, there were times when they would go for years without seeing the other, even though their meeting habits and those long times apart had considerably shortened since the Apocalypse-that-never-was.

The last time Crowley had called Aziraphale on his phone, the latter only replied that he was busy, and would tell Crowley when he could visit or call him again. And even though that _was_ odd ―busy with what? It wasn't like Aziraphale was an agent of Heaven anymore― he respected the angel's wish, and patiently waited for his call. … Until that morning. 

It certainly didn't help that Aziraphale also had been much quieter than usual when they last met. Aziraphale usually did most of the talking. He was quite the enthusiast creature, and always had so many little happenings and exciting stories in stock, he was constantly looking forward to share as much as he could with his friend. Even if a last meeting had only been the day prior, he still had a myriad of most important matters ―gossip, one could say― to tell Crowley. 

From the moment they were set free from their respective head offices, Aziraphale truly did seem infinitely more cheerful than he usually was, and Crowley couldn't help but feel himself fall even deeper for him ―a thing he didn't know was even possible. But lately... That old friend hadn't been his usual bubbly self. Sure the angel still smiled easily, but he would talk, and then remain silent for a while, until Crowley tried to fill in the gaps. Silence was a comfortable thing between them, but Crowley had felt uneasy those times. He had felt he _needed_ to break the lingering silences, as if those were not the natural kind. 

It was as if Aziraphale had seemed... distracted, somehow. Like something was on his mind, but if the demon started to inquire, it never took long before Aziraphale was assuring him there really wasn't, and that he shouldn't worry. That everything was “jolly good”. 

Oh for sure, if Aziraphale had said “tickety boo”, Crowley would have suspected the angel was hiding something much earlier. But the idea that his friend would do such a thing, _again_ , was so rattling, he wanted nothing more but to throw the mere thought of it away and decide he believed him instead. Because how could he not, after everything they went through? 

Crowley thought he knew Aziraphale like the back of his hand. And to some extent, it was true. He knew his preferences, what he loved, what he disliked, his favorite restaurant, his favorite wine, his favorite books and authors and plays and composers... Truthfully, he could go on. 

He knew his body language... what his frowns and pouts said, what his different smiles meant. The fake ones, and the sincere ones. He could tell what his different hand gestures communicated. He knew his secrets, for most of them were actually _their_ secrets, but he also knew his methods, his logic. The thought process, his navigating through mortal lives on Earth, or the way the gears would move and turn inside his mind... He knew it all. He knew the angel all too well, and to an almost disgusting point of familiarity, and intimacy. That was what being around someone for six thousands years would do to a besotted demon. 

Objectively speaking, though, there were still things he didn't know about the angel. He didn't know if the curls of pale, blond hair were as soft as they looked. He didn't know what kind of sensations running his fingers through the holy feathers of his wings would give him. He didn't know what his mouth tasted like and if his hand inside his own would bring him warmth. He didn't know the taste and the feel of his skin, under his tongue and teeth, he didn't know the sound the prim little thing could make if they were to share a bed the way human lovers do. And he didn't know the flavour nor the colour of his soul, merging with his. 

He also didn't know what Aziraphale did or thought for every second of those thousands of years shared on Earth. There were many times, especially in the beginning, where they weren't in the same place at the same time. And if they were, they weren't necessarily around each other, or didn’t know what the other was doing. As for Aziraphale's thoughts, they were kept in a secret garden, like his own. Crowley wasn't the prying type, never had been. He thought it was best that way. 

As it was, however, he thought he knew Aziraphale well _enough_ to notice when the angel was hiding something from him. And in hindsight, maybe he did notice, but he realized, with a sinking heart, that such a thing as denial, especially when you love someone so deeply you trust them unconditionally, actually was a thing. His mind just chose to ignore the warning signals. 

Now looking back, Aziraphale _had_ been hiding something from him, Crowley was certain of it. But now it was too late, he had no lead, no hints, nothing to guide him to his missing friend. He felt desperation crawling all around him with its icy claws and he shivered, feeling oh too little, and oh too alone. 

Aziraphale would know what to do, but he wasn't there. He left without a word, or a note and thinking back to the time both of them were trying to stop Armageddon from happening, the only idea Crowley was left with now was to ask a... human, for help. He didn't like the idea, but what other choice did he have? As far as demonic powers went, snapping his fingers wasn't going to bring Aziraphale back. 

He tried, just in case. … And as expected, nothing happened. 

With a sigh, he left the unbearably cold and lifeless bookstore, and walked up to his car. The human's help it was going to be. 

He chuckled bitterly, reminding himself it had been one of Aziraphale's ideas.

*****

If he was going to turn to humans for help, Crowley's first intention was to ask the Witchfinder Army, like he did exactly three years ago. He, however, quickly changed his mind. All things considered, said “Army” hadn't been helpful in any way the last time ―and only time― he entrusted it with a mission.

During his time on Earth, Crowley had met millions of different type of humans. Some had been geniuses and some had been... much simpler minds, to stay polite. Some had been interesting, _fascinating_ , and some had been plain boring. He even sort of bonded with some of these souls, for as long as it could last at least, which usually wasn't a very long time. 

His lot would have said: “why bother?” but the ones he befriended usually were the interesting type to stick around, thus it wasn't a complete waste of time just because it was fated to be short lived. 

Yes, he did and would continue to outlive every single one of his mortal acquaintances, but he kept lovely memories of some of them, and even learned a thing or two about... the whole ordeal that meant being human. 

Some made for very interesting conversations he couldn't even begin to dream having with other demons. Not even with Aziraphale. And he knew the angel befriended some humans of his own. Not for “angel duties”, but because he wanted to, and was just as fascinated as Crowley was with some of them. There had even been times when the two of them realized they befriended the same human, and if anything, it served as a reminder to Crowley that Aziraphale and him weren't so different, after all. 

Out of the few humans he knew who were still alive in these days and age, and to which he knew he could turn for help, the girl who had hit his car with her bicycle seemed his wisest option. As far as human intelligence went, he figured she was just above average. Not a genius, but for a human, she was smart enough, which would do, he hoped. In any case, he figured the witch who actually _was_ a witch with “witchy powers” ―whatever that meant― would be much more helpful than the witch finders. It certainly put her above the vast majority of humans, who, as far as he knew, didn't have any kind of magic powers at all to begin with. 

Should he visit her or should he call her first, he wasn't sure, but if something had happened to Aziraphale, he didn't have the luxury of wasting any more time, and decided being straightforward, and maybe a little pushing, would be best. Which was why he drove to the West so madly fast the angel would have frowned, towards Tadfield, where he knew the witch was still living. 

Going back to Tadfield felt a bit surreal after the events that happened there the last time he was in the small village. He mildly wondered if those “flashes of love” Aziraphale had felt, the last time they were on that same road, could still be felt around, and dismissed the thought just as quickly as it came. His aching heart approved the decision. 

A knock on the door of Jasmine Cottage was answered with nothing but silence in the following minute. It was instantly replaced by a loud, irritated drumming as Crowley's patience was getting thinner with every passing second. It didn't even occur to him that maybe, the humans weren't home. Hell, he wondered if the woman would even remember him. Three years was nothing in a demon's eternal life, but for a human, wasn't it like... a _really_ long time? He had no idea actually. His notion and concept of what passing time felt for mortals was very, _very_ abstract in his mind, and he wouldn't be able to tell how long three years felt for one of them. Their lives seemed so ridiculously short he was possibly exaggerating the whole thing in his mind, but could you blame him, really. 

The look on her face as someone ―the witch― finally opened the door gave him all the answers he demanded in a matter of seconds. She did recognise him, and she didn't look all too happy about it. Though that might have been explained by the insistent knocking on her door. 

“Book girl.” he said, partly as a way to say hello, all the while hinting at the last time they saw each other, but mostly because he had no recollection of her name. 

“Book thief.” she replied, icily. To which Crowley groaned because he had never had any interest in her book and he gave back the stupid thing. And _technically_ it was Aziraphale who had failed to return it, which made _him_ the original thief. But he didn't say anything because he guessed the jab was all too deserved for not remembering her name. And most importantly, he was in quite desperate need of help. 

She must have figured that if he was at her doorstep, looking so agitated he could have smashed her door, some important matters were to be discussed, though, because she stepped aside to let the unexpected guest inside. 

Crowley has hesitant to step inside. Looking up, above the entryway, he immediately understood why and he motioned vaguely at the horseshoe nailed on the porch roof, mumbling something vaguely resembling “Can't. Not in the mood for that crap today”. She looked at him with wide, unblinking eyes, like an owl, before following his gaze. Then she frowned, before nodding and stepping outside herself. 

Closing the door behind her, she motioned towards a bench in the front yard, where they both sat, and now she was looking at him, waiting for an explanation. 

Crowley didn't know where to begin, or even what to say. He hated to admit such things, but he hadn't thought this through at all as he came here. All he had brought with him was that terrible hunch, and a “missing-Aziraphale-alert” stating his friend was in trouble even though he had no proof to present other than he _knew_ , and that she would have to trust him with this because he couldn't explain himself further than that. 

And so he did just that: he explained his waking with the dreadful feeling that something horrible had happened. He told her about Aziraphale's disappearance, the fact that he couldn't sense him around, and that he usually could, for very large distances, but traces of him being nowhere to be found was a very bad sign. He mentioned trying to call him, and that he did that more than a hundred of times already that day. He did it again as they spoke, agitating the expensive phone in front of her nose as if trying to say “ _See?_ He's gone,” as if that was irrefutable proof he was saying the truth. He also confessed he had no clues, not even one lead, where to start to find him, even though he had thoroughly searched the bookshop. And, finally, he swallowed hard as he said he was desperate, practically begging for her help. He assured that this wasn't a demon's deal, that she had to trust him, that he could and would give her whatever she most desired freely, he just needed her help. 

At that point, his speech started to become so incoherent, as he kept stuttering and flailing his arms around in wild gestures, that she had to calm him down with a pat on his shoulder, an empathetic look in her eyes. 

Crowley was hunched over the bench. He looked miserable. His head was hidden behind his hands, and his hair in disarray. He wasn't crying, but his eyes stung behind his glasses anyway. If he wasn't crying, he was close to, and he felt utterly pathetic. 

The pat on his shoulder had him looking up to the girl's ―Anathema she said her name was― face. As if that wasn't humiliating enough, he had the unpleasant feeling, much to his pride's horror, that his glasses weren't doing much to hide how small he felt in that moment. But then Anathema said something that rose hope inside him, and he sat a little more upright in his seat. 

She said she would help him, if she could.


End file.
